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“Why not bring in someone who was more experienced?” I asked, and quickly realized how harsh my words sounded. “I’m not saying you aren’t good at what you do, but you must have been young. That was twenty years ago.”

Ransom just smiled, not taking my words too personally. “I agree with you. I was only sent in because no one else wanted to take the case. It’s shit pay, and you’re in the middle of nowhere. They sent me here because I had the least seniority. I was in my mid-twenties and had nothing tying me down, so I was shipped out.”

“Why have you stayed?”

Ransom sighed deeply and wandered to what I now knew was his desk, collapsing into the chair. “We didn’t realize it was a serial killer for two more years. I wasn’t on those cases, still focused on the Taylors' murders. By the time we put the pieces together, I couldn’t leave. I was too invested.”

“Was?” I couldn’t help but point out his use of the past tense. It made me wonder if he was nearing the end of his rope.

“With Goldie being taken?” He sighed and looked off, his gaze growing dreary as the weight of all the lost lives weighed heavily on him. “I can’t help but blame myself at this point. I hear the whisperings. People think I’m incompetent, that I’m at fault. I don’t blame them. I’ve only ever had two good suspects, and they’ve both been cleared. Maybe it’s time I hand over the reins to someone else.”

A part of me agreed. Goldie was always compassionate toward his plight. I was, too… before. Before she was taken. Now I wished I had someone fighting for her as much as I was—someone who didn’t question his own worth, but instead dove headfirst into finding her, the way I should have been doing from the start.

I shook away the thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to pity Ransom or myself. “Who were the two suspects?”

“Peter Baker is one. I would say most of the town suspects him. But he’s harmless. A screw or two loose, but harmless,” Detective Ransom insisted. “The other was a young kid who grew up on the outskirts of town. He was the main suspect in the Taylors' murders until we learned it was serial.”

“Why was he the main suspect?”

“He had a grudge against them. Petty things. Dakota Taylor had arrested him on some harassment charges, vandalism, shit like that. The town thought it was him because of the supposed grudge, but he moved out of town and had an alibi for the following murders and abductions. I cleared him myself,” Detective Ransom explained. “Do you want his details to check him out? I can give you Baker’s, too.”

I shook my head. “No need. If they’ve been cleared, they’ve been cleared.”

We were both startled when the front door flew open and a tired-looking man came in, pulling a cart behind him. He looked at us apologetically. “Sorry, didn’t see you two.”

Detective Ransom waved him off. “No worries, man.” He turned to me. “I need to power through some paperwork before Mark here kicks me out.”

I raised a curious brow, looking between the two.

Mark grabbed a mop from his cart, holding it up as the smell of cleaner wafted through the space. “Cleaning time. Can’t have anyone in the office while I do it; the chemicals are too harsh to breathe in.”

Detective Ransom nodded. “He’s here every Friday, and I’ve tested my luck a few times now. It’s not worth it to stay. It burns your sinuses, and the smell sticks to your clothes.”

Mark made a sound of agreement. “You’re telling me. I reek of this shit all week.”

“Can I walk you out?” Detective Ransom asked, and I shook my head.

“I’m parked just down the street.” I headed to the door, stopping just before the exit and calling over my shoulder, “On second thought, can you send me those details on the two suspects?”

Detective Ransom threw me a thumbs-up, and I wandered back onto the dreary main street of Cherrytree Hills. I looked around to see if Peter Baker was watching me again, but he was nowhere in sight. I sighed, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets and heading down the street toward my car. I glanced up at the sky as I walked, the clouds looming high above.

“Keep fighting, Goldie. I will, too.”

Goldie

Early humans had invented the concept of time based on the sun’s cycle. We had evolved with it, sleeping when it disappeared over the horizon and waking when it made its ascent. Our years were based on the sun’s positioning in the sky as our planet completed its orbit. Seasons revolved around the daylight available in the sky, solstices celebrated on the longest and shortest days. Society functioned around the sun and the light it gave off. Without the sun, time was meaningless.

I had no concept of how long I had been in this dark hellhole with Silas. I had hoped his count of visits had been accurate—that it was truly on a weekly cadence. That was the only way to make any sense of how long I had been here. Father had visited six times. The first, I had been mostly unconscious for. It had taken two days for me to feel like I was in my body again. The concussion hadn’t healed when I was knocked unconscious again, and I was terrified of what damage had been done, what had been permanently lost. My mind was a muddied culmination of what a person should be, but in no discernible order that I or anyone could understand.

When Father had visited since, I hadn’t fought, just as Silas instructed. I needed to protect my mind in whatever way I could. I also hadn’t let Father touch Silas. I was beginning to understand Silas had spent the last decade being beaten black and blue by Father once a week. He hadn’t outright explained it, but I could see a few fading bruises when I was first here, and he seemed to be in complete shock after he heard what had happened to me. We hadn’t been hurt in the same way, and for that, I was eternally grateful.

There wasn’t much I knew about Father. He was tall—around 5’10”, if I had to guess. He was stronger than I thought a person could be, or my time here was making me weaker. Every time, he reeked of gasoline and antiseptic, and I couldn’t understand what would cause that combination of scents, but it was driving me crazy. The man never spoke, never acknowledged my questions, and if I didn’t know he was human, I would assume he didn’t breathe. I could neither hear nor feel it. It was unsettling. Everything about him was unsettling.

Silas walked by my side slowly as we followed the perimeter of our prison. He walked it with me every day without argument. His hair was longer than I had seen for a while, brushing his brows now. Mine looked the same, and I was grateful that I was feeling more like me, though I still didn’t know who I was.

“And birthdays are the day you were born and people throw parties?” Silas asked.

I nodded. Most of our days were spent talking about the world above. Silas was desperate to learn more about the rest of this world we called home, and it was obvious how little he knew. “Yes, usually family or friends throw the parties for you. They want to celebrate you.”